


wade through this stream, and the next

by Elenothar



Category: NCIS
Genre: 100 percent less running away to Mexico, 50 percent more emotional healing, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Hiatus AU, M/M, Recovery, Temporary Amnesia, both physical and emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: When Gibbs collapses in MTAC after watching the Cape Fear explode, any nebulous plans to retreat to Mexico are put on hold. With a bit more time to prepare, his team isn't going to let him slip away that easily.He wakes to more of the same. Grief, pain, more new-old memories, a person sitting in the armchair watching him sleep. Maybe it’s a team pastime, sneaking into their boss’ room at night.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why I'm writing fix it fic for what's now pretty much ancient canon. (Too many feelings, that's why.)
> 
> Most of the rest of the fic is written, so I don't expect it to stay a WIP for too long.
> 
> Warning for brief mention of suicidal ideation at the beginning of the first part, in line with Gibbs' canon issues.

*

Without the constant beeping of the heart monitor, the room is silent enough for Gibbs to hear the beating of his heart. It feels like it’s erratic, hammering with memories one moment, and flat and slow the next, but it _sounds_ steady, just like it always does.

His fingers clench around the bedsheets, only slightly hindered by the clamp stuck on his forefinger. Nothing about the situation is steady. His gut is roiling, he’s drowning in a sucking mixture of grief and despair, and his mind resembles so much Swiss cheese, flashing memories more or less at random. Also he has apparently lost fifteen years of his life after getting blown up again. One of these days fate would stop hating him and he’d probably end up dead from the surprise.

_\- the three of them lounging on the sofa, Shannon half-heartedly admonishing Kelly for throwing popcorn at her daddy even while Gibbs is laughing -_

Gibbs chokes on a growl, trying to fall into and turn away from the memory at the same time. The rawness just beneath his skin is too much. They tell him fifteen years have passed since his girls’ death, but to him it feels like weeks, the pain so viscerally present that he wonders, not for the first time, why he didn’t just pull the damn trigger on that damn beach.

Ever since the woman’s visit – Jenny? His _boss_? - more flashes of new memories keep invading, useless and mundane most of them. So he likes drinking bourbon in a basement somewhere, but that’s getting him no closer to understanding his current existence. At least it’s enough to put paid to any lingering doubts that this is all just some convoluted conspiracy. He might’ve been embarrassed about his complete and utter loss of control in front of someone who’s apparently his superior if it didn’t feel quite so pointless to worry about it.

A nurse’s footsteps pass by his room, quiet through the sound-dampening glass, but loud enough tp trigger another flash of an image, an orange room, a voice saying _didn’t see you there, boss_. He tries to chase the memory, finds nothing but emptiness and an echo of emotions he doesn’t understand. He had never quite realised how much emotions rely on context. Would it even be better to have all his memories back? Fifteen years of living without his girls, with a hole in his chest in their place. Marrying again. Why would he do that? How _could_ he do that? It makes no sense. Becoming a cop. Now that he can see at least – a dirtbag is a dirtbag.

Slowly, a thought worms itself to the surface of his fried mind. Surely, in _fifteen years_ he must have learned how to cope with his loss, the agony, the grief?

Surely.

*

The next few hours and reclamation of some of his more recent memories ( _Ari, Kate, oh Kate, Ziva the sibling, I want my family, Kelly Kelly Kelly_ ) don’t do much to improve his life.

Behind his back, the Cape Fear explodes, taking the lives of 13 men with it. The floor of the room shakes, the weaving making the pain in his head worse. He’s so tired he barely even registers the hands that catch him before he impacts the ground.

“He shouldn’t be out of the hospital,” the one who identified himself as McGee says, sounding far away, and Gibbs almost laughs. They’re all barely _people_ to him, these men and women who wanted so desperately to be remembered that they immediately believed him when he said he did, even though he has flashes of them at best. Already he feels the weight of their loyalty, their care, these strangers who inspire emotion in him even though his mind is still blank.

He’s tired.

_\- sand, dry air, “They’re dead, Gunny. I’m so sorry”, an eagle cries overhead -_

Thirteen people died on the Cape Fear because some politician wanted to cover his own ass.

Gibbs closes his eyes and falls into oblivion with none of his usual fight.

*

He wakes to more of the same. Grief, pain, more new-old memories, a person sitting in the armchair watching him sleep. Maybe it’s a team pastime, sneaking into their boss’ room at night.

“Hey, boss,” DiNozzo says, with an ease that belies the pinched look around his eyes. “You gave everyone a fright collapsing in MTAC.”

Gibbs, in the privacy of his own mind, concedes that it might have been a touch dramatic.

He’s running entirely on instinct when he says, “Wasn’t expecting the earthquake. Damnedest timing.”

DiNozzo stares at him, mouth half open, for just a beat too long. Then he starts laughing. Given his own recent behaviour, Gibbs doesn’t call the man on the hysterical edge to it.

“Only you, boss, could manage to mess with me a day after coming out of a _coma._ ” He wipes at his eyes. “If that’s how you behave in an earthquake, never move to California.”

Gibbs raises a brow. “What the hell would I want in California?”

“Good point,” DiNozzo shrugs. “Not exactly your area, beach, hot babes...”

Ignoring the crude implications, Gibbs takes his time studying the younger man. He remembers DiNozzo’s exuberance while they were trooping up the stairs, conviction hiding behind humour when he said “I knew you didn’t forget _me_ ”, other flashes of memories, often featuring him just behind and to the side of Gibbs. On his six.

But right now there’s something about him, something guarded Gibbs can’t quite put his finger on. So he takes a guess.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

Gibbs stares at him.

After a while DiNozzo sighs. “You’d think that would be less effective when you can barely even remember our existence.”

Gibbs tilts his head, repeats, “How’d you figure it out?”

“You’re not the only one Ducky told that story about being left on a _ferry_ , boss. Only noticed once I played it back in my head, but you weren’t exactly effusive with other details, so I put two and two together.”

Gibbs grunts. Sounds like that ship has sailed then – at least where DiNozzo is concerned. “Anyone else notice?”

DiNozzo shrugs. “If they did they’re keeping it quiet. But I wouldn’t think so. You have us all _very_ well-trained.”

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean, DiNozzo?” Gibbs demands, bristling.

For some reason that makes DiNozzo smile. “Just that we’re all used to taking your word as gospel. Trusting you.”

It’s the last part that brings Gibbs up short. He knows himself well enough, even from before the point in time where his memories splinter into incoherent clumps, to know that he takes trust seriously. He has never trusted easily, doubts that would’ve changed even after fifteen years. And to have that kind of trust from his team, the people he works with every day – he can’t just brush that aside. Not even as brain-damaged as he is right now would he call that inconsequential.

\- _Say it._

_I will take care. I will come back safe._

_Not those words._

_I love you. -_

Shannon and Kelly had trusted him unconditionally. Look where it got them.

DiNozzo’s suddenly sharp voice halts the downward spiral.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, _don’t_.”

Startled, Gibbs meets the other man’s eyes and finds a steel there that might’ve surprised him if some half-remembered memories hadn’t already warned him that there’s more to the man slouching in the armchair as if he has never heard of proper posture than is immediately apparent.

Gibbs has never been anything but taciturn, slow to share words when a look could do. Even Shannon had to sometimes remind him to _use your words, Jethro_ and it had been easier with her than with anyone else. So his first instinct is to stay silent, avoid the implied question, forge on ahead alone. But for once there’s a second voice too, a voice that tells him that while he can’t remember much about DiNozzo, he still feels a trust there, and that he has a responsibility to his team, too. Perhaps opening up a bit is actually easier without all the baggage of experiences past.

“I was angry at Mike,” he says, almost contemplative. Surprise flashes over DiNozzo’s face, as if he hadn’t truly expected Gibbs to actually clarify anything, and he sits up straighter. “I never understood how he could quit, until now.”

The way DiNozzo blanches is almost imperceptible, but Gibbs has always been good at reading people. He doesn’t need to know the other man to tell that the brightness in his voice is entirely forced when he says, “If you’re planning to run away to a Mexican beach, don’t tell me. Abby would kill me for not talking you out of it and Ducky wouldn’t be far behind.”

Gibbs meets DiNozzo’s eyes squarely. “Might be better to make a clean break.”

“Better for who?” Fake brightness is replaced by sharpness.

“Not the man you know,” Gibbs says, almost carelessly. “Might never be again. And not even I’m stubborn enough to pretend I’m fit for work.”

He didn’t expect those few words to be so exhausting, but once they are out there he can’t take them back, can only sag back into the pillow ever so slightly, briefly close his eyes. He _wants_ to work. Wants to be with his unit, running drills, keeping everyone in shape, practising with his rifle at the range. It’s why he joined the marines in the first place, stayed in even though he had a family at home, why he ended up joining NIS when Franks offered. He has always needed to be busy with something meaningful, outside life at home. Now Shannon and Kelly are gone, and there’s nothing else left.

A light tap to his hand brings him back to the present. Tony is looking at him, eyes bright with intensity and a kind of desperation Gibbs really hates missing the context for.

“We are your _friends_ , Gibbs. Don’t you get that we all want to support you while your memories return, or stand by your side if they don’t? As for work, you’re the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met and you just about bleed the job. You _will_ be back if you want it.”

Something in him breaks. “I don’t even _remember_ you!”

“But I, we, remember you.” DiNozzo is implacable, a stone in the heaving waters of Gibbs’ emotions. “I remember the man who has had my back for five years.”

Air rasps through Gibbs’ sore throat, louder than it should be. Maybe that’s all that matters. Maybe what matters is that running away to lick his wounds in private would be the easy way. He hasn’t even met all of his ‘team’ yet and he already knows they won’t let him hide, from anything, much less himself. Maybe they’ll be able to make him forget what he’s lost, just for a little while at a time.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes but now he opens them again, looks at DiNozzo who is trying his best not to appear as if he’s vibrating out of his skin waiting for Gibbs to make a decision.

“If I want it?”

DiNozzo makes a little confused noise that Gibbs is hard-pressed not to mentally label as adorable. Since when has he found anything _adorable_?

No, now is not the time to try and step over that mental tripwire.

“You said I’d be back _if_ I want it.”

DiNozzo’s fingers tap an uneven rhythm on the armrest of the chair. He doesn’t meet Gibbs’ eyes. “You’ve given more than anyone could’ve asked for to protect others for a long time, Gibbs. If you truly wanted out, wanted to find some peace? I couldn’t argue with that. You deserve that. You’ve _always_ deserved that.” He grins, grimly self-mocking. “I’d hate it, but I wouldn’t try to stop you.”

Another puzzle piece he didn’t even know he had been searching for clicks into place. “But others might.”

DiNozzo nods, shrugs. “You’re good at hiding the damage, boss. You don’t let them see, so they don’t understand.”

“You’re not exactly a poster boy for letting others see you, DiNozzo,” Gibbs counters quietly and only realises the words are true as they come out of his mouth. He’s talking too much. Being a functional mute is so much easier to navigate.

DiNozzo acknowledges the point with an airy wave of his hand. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then forges on. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

Gibbs doesn’t think about his answer – the decision is already made, has been made ever since this desperately loyal man came to his room in the middle of the night because he knows Gibbs well enough to predict what he would do if no one stops him.

“Yes,” he sighs.

The smile he gets in return might, perhaps, one day make the harder path worth it.

*

DiNozzo keeps his word and keeps everyone off Gibbs’ back for the rest of the day. The next morning he’s in full swing arguing with the doctor about being released because he’s _fine enough that having_ _me_ _taking up a hospital bed is just a waste on all fronts_ when his next visitor arrives.

Even while the doctor is speaking, voice raised in annoyance at Gibbs’ ‘bull-headedness’, he hears the clomp of heavy boots and faint jingle of chains that he now remembers enough to immediately attribute to Abby.

He relaxes from his brief state of hyper-alertness. Of all the people he’s slowly remembering, Abby is the one where his emotions are the most straightforward – a deep, abiding fondness that isn’t much affected by only remembering a few instances of standing in her lab while she excitedly explained how she’d broken open their case this time, rather than the hundreds there must have been.

The doctor’s gaze pings between the two of them, then he shakes his head and excuses himself. Gibbs isn’t entirely sure whether it’s because he wants to give them privacy or whether he had realized that he was about to lose the argument with Gibbs about staying in the hospital another night, and right this moment he doesn’t care because Abby is looking at him with huge liquid eyes and even _he_ knows that her voice should be much more exuberant when she says, “Gibbs! You’re awake!”

_\- Whatcha got, Abs? Oh, just the answers to all of your questions, all for the price of one Caf-Pow -_

“Hey Abs,” he says, voice rough from a combination of leftover irritation by the breathing tube and the much more metaphorical tightening in his throat at seeing her distressed.

Abby startles a little at the sound and he frowns when instead of answering out loud she starts rapidly moving her hands.

Sign language? Did they talk in sign normally? That doesn’t seem quite right.

But his eyes are tracking the movement, brain translating even while he’s distracted.

[You look less like you’re going to keel over, G-warrior.]

The smile at her name sign for him is entirely reflexive and it deepens when her eyes light up in response.

[Feel steadier,] he returns, movements a little slow as the shapes pull at still healing skin. The damned fingertip monitor thingamabob is getting in the way too. [You?]

She rolls her eyes, points an accusing finger at him, before continuing to sign. [Focus on yourself for once. We all want you to get better.]

Even after Tony’s visit he’s trying not to think about that part, the weight of expectation from all the people that seem to be in his life these days. The buffer of a day to himself that DiNozzo’s understanding has given him has helped, but he still hates feeling like he’s letting them all down. Still doesn’t want anyone else to know just how much he doesn’t remember. Still doesn’t know if he can ever return to work.

Something must have shown on his face – unsurprising, since his control these last few days has been _abysmal_ – because Abby doesn’t wait for him to reply. [Heart-cop said it will take time. I just wanted you to know that we’re all here for you.]

Gibbs nods, determinedly tries not to think of the rare time he’d gotten sick and Shannon had taken care of him, whispered reassurances in his fevered ear, and fails.

Casting about for something else to say, he signs [Any active cases? How are things at the Yard?]

He doesn’t really care right now, but it seems like something normal-him would ask. Besides he’s pretty sure that it had been Abby, DiNozzo and Ducky that kept him so well-informed of office gossip.

For the next few minutes Abby catches him up to what has been going on ever since he got himself blown up, and she leaves again not long after. Gibbs suspects that someone had a word with her about not tiring him out before she came. It’s unnecessary, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Even with the reputation for being taciturn he must have gotten stuck with some time in the last fifteen years unless he drastically changed his way of interacting with other people, it would eventually become obvious that he’s contributing even less to a conversation than usual in an attempt to hide just how much memory he’s still missing. He still remembers the shocked, upset look in Ducky’s eyes when he realised that Gibbs didn’t remember him at all with perfect clarity and has no wish to repeat the experience with anyone else.

*

Ducky is the one to come by next, though that has more to do with the fact that Gibbs’ doctor called him in as a last ditch attempt of persuading him to remain in the hospital than anything else. The Doctor seems to be under the impression that Ducky would agree with him, but although he frowns after giving Gibbs a thorough once-over, Ducky does no such thing.

“With him being out of immediate danger, Jethro will recuperate much better at home,” Ducky tells the doctor firmly and Gibbs doesn’t even try to suppress his smug look. “He usually does, being far too _stubborn_ for anything else.”

The last part is clearly directed more at him than the doctor, but Gibbs doesn’t mind. This whole exchange feels comfortingly familiar, for all that it says bad things about his propensity to get injured on the job. Presumably on the job. He frowns at the brief flash of red hair, screaming and a seven-iron heading for his head, but shakes it off. He doesn’t even like golf.

The doctor looks like he’s about two seconds away from throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine, on your head be it.” He fixes Gibbs with a gimlet stare. “ _No_ exertion at all for at least a week. Don’t even think about going back to work or travelling. And come back if any new symptoms crop up or your head starts hurting worse.”

Gibbs does his best to look guileless. “Sure, doc.”

The doctor shakes his head, clearly not fooled, then turns to Ducky. “Try to get him to actually take the pain meds. I know his marine type – they don’t ever take anything voluntarily unless it’s grunt candy. And someone should really be keeping an eye on him for the next two days.”

“I will make certain of it,” Ducky says, in that decided way he has that makes most people instinctively relax.

_\- Stay calm, Jethro, help is on the way. I’m keeping pressure on the wound, you will be fine._

_I am calm, Duck._

_So you are, my boy. Silly of me to expect otherwise. I knew this boy once who -_

Though irritated at being talked about as if he isn’t even in the room, Gibbs is tired and still off-kilter enough to just want to get out of the damned hospital, so he keeps quiet and his face blandly impassive.

“I brought you some clothes, Jethro,” Ducky says once the doctor has finally left, muttering darkly under his breath. “While you look rather fetching in light blue, I suspect proper attire will make the trip easier to bear.”

Gibbs grunts his agreement, somehow certain that Ducky will take it as the thanks he means it to be, and disappears into the bathroom to change. He’s moving stiffly still, feeling every year of his new age in joints that had still functioned smoothly last he recalled.

He doesn’t look in the mirror, doesn’t need the added reminder of all the ways things have changed in his reflection’s tired eyes and grey hair.

“You driving, Duck?” he asks, stepping out of the bathroom with the hospital gown in hand.

Ducky shakes his head. “Anthony is waiting with the car.”

Gibbs’ eyebrow twitches upward. “You thinking I’m gonna make a break for it?”

“Seeing as you are leaving the hospital against medical advice, the thought _had_ crossed my mind. Your little foray to the Yard already occasioned a relapse.”

Gibbs opens his mouth to protest, but Ducky forestalls him, eyes glinting in such a steely way that Gibbs experiences a brief, rattlingly intense desire for all his memories back so he would know how to _act_ , whether this is normal, if Ducky is always draconian about Gibbs’ health ( _yes, yes he is, when you let him_ , a voice whispers in the back of his mind).

“I understand why you did it, I’m well aware of your tendency to see cases through to the end and your wish to save those men was, as you always are, commendable. However, as your personal physician, I reserve the right to worry and, yes, nag.”

Gibbs conceals his startled reaction to that titbit of knowledge – _personal physician_? He must trust Ducky an awful lot – by moving towards the door, as if intent to get out of there. That’s easy enough to convey, since he is.

Ducky follows, but seems to see walking through hospital corridors as no impediment to continuing his lecture. “Your mind is still healing, Jethro. Extreme emotions, such as entirely justifiable anger, could interfere with your recovery, if you’re stressing your system too much.”

Gibbs uses an orderly passing with a wheelchair as an excuse to fall into step just behind Ducky rather than in front of him, since he doesn’t actually remember the fastest way out of the hospital.

“ _Anger_ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he growls. Gibbs hasn’t let himself dwell on the fact that the government he works for condoned the deaths of thirteen men simply to ‘avoid causing a panic’, that he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it, just like the Director of NCIS hadn’t been able to. That he might’ve been able to avert all this if he’d just recovered the crucial memories a little faster. Right this moment there’s nothing he can do about it and he’s got enough upsetting emotions running rampant in his head without adding pure impotent fury to the mix.

Once outside, Gibbs takes a deep breath but doesn’t protest Ducky pushing him into the back of the sedan DiNozzo pulls up at the curb. He buckles his seat belt and sags back into the seat, listening to the other two talk with half an ear. Idly, Gibbs wonders if Ducky is the only one who calls DiNozzo ‘Anthony’. He can’t remember anyone else ever doing it (memories of his own interactions with the man indicate ‘DiNozzo’ as the preferred form of address, with the occasional ‘Tony’ thrown in, although he hasn’t quite figured out when the latter occurs yet), but currently that doesn’t exactly mean much.

His head is pounding.

Once they’ve cleared the hospital area, he says, “Drop Ducky off first, DiNozzo.”

“Jethro - ” Ducky starts and Gibbs makes a noise that’s supposed to be a growl but comes out all wrong, thready and desperate, because he needs to be alone, needs privacy to even start dealing with the fucking mess in his head and the people hovering may mean well but he needs them to _stop_ before he loses it entirely.

Ducky sighs, understanding in a way that should be grating but only feels like relief. “Promise me you’ll call me me the moment your head gets worse.”

“Yeah,” Gibbs says roughly, because it’s a small price to pay and for all his stubbornness he’s not stupid – he doesn’t want to end up with permanent brain damage either.

“Very well then.”

Gibbs spends the rest of the ride in silence, eyes closed. Every so often another flash of memory passes through his mind, most fairly innocuous scenes featuring him driving a company sedan like this one. Some even make him smile ( _Do you always drive like a maniac or am I just special?_ ), but it all feels… futile. Fifteen years is a hell of a lot of memories, and with the way they’re drip-feeding back into his brain at the moment it could take months if not years to regain most of them.

He isn’t optimistic enough to think he’ll ever get it all back.

Almost all his good intentions of just leaving the car and quickly making it into the house before DiNozzo can possibly get it into his head to accompany him come to nothing when the car pulls up at the curb outside Gibbs’ house and the memory of that last goodbye with Shannon and Kelly hits him like a gut punch. He doesn’t know if he makes a noise, but it feels like an age until he can get a white-knuckled grip on the car door and push himself out, half stuck in the past, half unbearably fucking grateful that DiNozzo doesn’t say anything, just starts the car and drives away as soon as Gibbs has stepped away.

If he had looked back he would have seen the struggle on the other man’s face as he does so, but Gibbs’ gaze is locked on the front door to what had once been a family home ~~not so long ago~~.

The emptiness within the house echoes. It was never meant to hold only a single person, and a quiet one at that. Gibbs’ time at the hospital has already made it perfectly clear that there would be no one waiting for him when he got back home, not that he would’ve coped well with it if there were. And he’s always tended to make the kind of friends who you could call for help years down the line and they’d come, no questions asked, but don’t keep in regular contact otherwise. Maybe the occasional beer in a pub if they found themselves in the same location. Only his team from work had visited, which wasn’t as much of a surprise as it might’ve been to someone who wasn’t very aware of their own workaholic tendencies.

Yet they hadn’t just visited for form’s sake either, but genuinely seemed to care for him – that part, he can admit in the privacy of his own mind, was touching. Remembering their support, some part of him thinks he really should be coping better than he is, not be gracelessly falling apart one bit at a time.

He turns away from the thought. He has remembered enough now to know that the first time around he hadn’t tried to get better for a long time, had clung to the past and to his work, and the same pragmatic voice that had carried him through war and life since tells him he better not be repeating past mistakes, knowing that there are better ways. Right now, though, Gibbs can’t stomach listening to it.

Weary and hurting, he trudges up the stairs to the bedroom and prays for undisturbed slumber.

At 2 in the morning, he turns over, mostly asleep, and gropes the other side of the bed for Shannon’s warm body. When he wakes up enough to remember that she isn’t there, won’t ever be there again, his heart just about shrivels in his chest.

He gets up and goes downstairs because anything is better than experiencing that again.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

Tony hasn’t been quite this indecisive since that time he’d been hit on by a blonde and a brunette at the same time and had to decide which one to go home with. The car is growing cold and dark around him and he’s still sitting there like he’s on the world’s shittiest stakeout, thoughts chasing one after another in an endless loop.

Except for how he’s outside his boss’ house and it’s probably more stalking than stakeout at this point. Gibbs had clearly communicated that he wanted, no _needed_ to be alone to get himself back together though he hadn’t actually said the words. If Tony went in there now, he’d either get his ass kicked or be met with that terrifying despairing blankness in Gibbs’ eyes that seems to have taken up near-permanent residence there since the explosion and memory loss.

He wonders if it’s terribly fucked up that he really wants it to be the former. He can deal with a grumpy Gibbs, who surrounds himself with silence and stubborn independence like a shield – that’s normal, would be reassuring even, because not even in his lowest moments has Tony ever wanted Gibbs to be anyone but himself.

But Gibbs isn’t quite… Gibbs right now. Oh, it’s not like he was a completely different person fifteen years ago, just after the tragedy that Tony is slowly starting to realise must have shaped his entire life from then on, but he’s still a little bit _alien_.

Funny how you never know how much of a rock someone is in your life until that rock erodes.

Not that Gibbs is eroding. Gibbs is fine, or at least he will be fine. There’s really no room in Tony’s world view for anything else.

He checks his watch again, _fuck, twenty minutes, stop being such a coward, DiNozzo_ , and only just represses the urge to punch his steering wheel. His car doesn’t deserve it.

With another bitten off curse, he gets out of the car and jogs up to Gibbs’ door before he can think better of it.

The door is always open, but for once he knocks and when no shout to piss off issues from within he calls, “I’m coming in, boss! I hope you’re decent, cause I could do without the concussion you’ll give me if I see you naked.”

Still nothing.

Tony makes his way inside carefully, but without trying to be quiet. The last thing he needs is to actually surprise Gibbs right now. Out of habit he looks toward the door to the basement first, frowning when he finds it shut and no light seeping through the bottom crack. There’s no light on anywhere in the house, in fact, only the merest hint of movement in the semi-darkness of the living room.

“Gibbs?”

Gibbs is sitting folded up in front of his ratty old sofa, on the floor for no reason that Tony can determine, looking like ten miles of bad road and zero hours of restful sleep. His gaze is trained on an empty bit of mantelpiece that looks no different from the rest of the wall with the intensity of a drowning man who’s just had a dissociative break.

God, everything is terrible. Tony’d like to do a redo of the last week for a hundred, please.

Tony looks over the empty house, the dark lights in the ceiling, the even darker circles under Gibbs’ eyes, and takes a guess.

Swallowing around the reflexive _boss_ , he very deliberately says, “Gibbs. I’ve got a sofa in my apartment that’s big enough to sleep on. It’s pretty comfy even.”

Gibbs looks up at him, hands resting on his bent legs, calm and open like the rest of him isn’t. Doesn’t say anything.

“You can stay with me for a few days, if you want,” Tony continues, because if he’s digging a hole he might as well go all the way. Maybe he’ll eventually strike gold. “Your choice. I’ll leave you alone as much as you want. The house will still be there when your head’s on a little straighter.”

The ghost of a smile passes over Gibbs’ face and Tony could’ve cheered at the sign of life.

“Are you calling me bent, DiNozzo?”

Tony grins back. A little normalcy can go a long way sometimes. “That might depend on whether you’re taking me up on the invitation.”

Gibbs’ gaze sharpens. Another good sign. “And what makes you think we wouldn’t kill each other within days of bunking together? You’re a private man.”

Tony is not at all embarrassed that he does a mental little tap dance at this further proof that Gibbs is, in fact, regaining his memories. Well, that, or he’s still just freakishly good at reading people. Could go either way.

He shrugs. “We’ve done it before, and look at that, still alive.”

He doesn’t mention that in the past it’s always been him staying over at Gibbs’, where there’s much more space and options for privacy than at Tony’s flat, but he’s never had problems with lies of omission for the greater good. Besides, against all expectation, they actually get along quite well outside of work, as long as Tony keeps his yabba yabba to Gibbs-endurable amounts.

Tony knows Gibbs is going to say yes when the other man casts a bleak gaze around the darkened living room, eyes only lingering briefly on the door to the basement.

“I’ll grab your go-bag from the car,” he says and leaves Gibbs to collect himself in private.

*

Gibbs looks around Tony’s flat with an assessing eye and Tony tries not to twitch. The man’s gaze lingers on the sofa, then the big flat-screen and bigger DVD collection, but he doesn’t comment.

“Have I ever stayed here before?” Gibbs asks.

“No,” Tony says after a brief hesitation. Lies of omission are one thing, _outright_ lies another. He never outright lies to Gibbs and not only because Gibbs can always _tell_. He’s headed for the coffee maker, figuring that a cup of Gibbs’ life blood might make this whole thing easier. “I stayed over at yours. You prefer your own space.”

Gibbs simply nods at that, but he’s still frowning, as if there’s something not quite right and Tony hastily turns back to the coffee maker before he can read too much into it. There’s another reason why Tony has only ever stayed at Gibbs’ and that one has less to do with space and everything with Tony’s self control.

“Anyway, make yourself at home,” Tony says, still feeling a little awkward as he pushes the mug of coffee in Gibbs’ direction.

Gibbs doesn’t say anything, but he takes a sip of coffee, makes a vaguely approving face and hasn’t run for the hills yet so that’s probably all right.

Somewhat to Tony’s surprise, Gibbs gruffly offers to make dinner later that day. He hadn’t figured Gibbs for someone who cooks, but he supposes a man can’t live on take-out and steaks alone so he probably shouldn’t be surprised. The resulting potato dish is more than edible, too, and Gibbs looks as close to pleased as he ever gets unless a solved case is involved when Tony tells him so.

Soon, Tony’s plate is clean and he’s sipping on a beer, rolling the question around in his mind. “So, when are the doctors clearing you to come back to the office?”

“Two weeks,” Gibbs grunts, clearly unimpressed, but something in his demeanour makes Tony think that maybe he’ll actually heed the doctors’ advice this time. Especially given the fact that he hasn’t tried to muscle his way back to the office as soon as he discharged himself from the hospital, which had been the norm up to now whenever he was injured.

“You think you’ll have all your memories back by then?” Tony asks, trying not to sound as hesitant as he’s feeling. They all depend on Gibbs too much for him to be walking around with holes in his memories.

“We both know the odds of me getting back all my memories,” Gibbs growls.

Tony swallows against his instinctive denial. “Well, you’ve never much been one for following the odds.” His face lights up. “Bit like Han Solo. I can just see you saying _never tell me the odds_.”

“Shouldn’t I be Kenobi in this scenario?” Gibbs asks, managing to stall Tony’s entire thought process more efficiently than a baseball bat to the head. “Besides you’re more the Han Solo type.”

Tony realises his mouth is hanging open – _Gibbs_ , making _Star Wars_ references? – closes it, then opens it again because curiosity has always been his downfall. “How d’you figure?”

“Bit of a scoundrel but pretends to be much worse than he actually is.” Gibbs’ voice is entirely matter-of-fact, as if he’s discussing the weather not laying Tony’s soul bare. “A good man underneath it all. Unfailingly loyal once someone has made it past his walls. Secretly an idealist.”

Tony can _feel_ himself blushing and casts around desperately for something neutral to say. Leave it to Gibbs to remember all the inconvenient facts first. “Didn’t know you’ve seen Star Wars, boss.”

He can tell from Gibbs’ expression that the man is quite aware of Tony’s attempt at deflection, but for once he lets it go. “Everyone has seen Star Wars. If… older me claimed anything else he was just messing with you.”

“Not sure it ever came up,” Tony says. “Don’t see you as Kenobi though. No way you’d have sat around on your ass on some dustball planet for twenty years while the galaxy went down the shitter without doing something about it.”

That coaxes a rough laugh out of Gibbs.

*

Tony is face-planted on the bed, kicked out of the living room by Gibbs’ obvious exhaustion but not quite tired enough to go to sleep himself, when Abby calls him in a panic.

“Tony! Gibbs is gone! He isn’t at home and he isn’t supposed to strain himself yet, why did he go out, maybe he got into trouble – ”

“Abby!” Tony half shouts over the babble. “Gibbs is fine. He’s staying with me for a bit.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding small and lost now that the panic is leeching from her voice. “That’s good? Yes, that’s good, you’ll look after him, won’t you Tony? I know he’s gonna be doing his growly I’m a marine I don’t need anybody’s help routine, but...”

“I’ll do my best, Abby,” Tony promises, keeping his voice quiet and hoping his earlier shout hadn’t woken Gibbs. “He’s been surprisingly non-growly, actually. It’s been freaking me out.”

Abby makes a considering noise. “I suppose even Gibbs can’t be growly all the time.” Silence from her end of the line. Then she asks, ever so quietly, “Can I come over and see him, Tony? I know he’s fine, but I really need to see it.”

“Come tomorrow. He’s sleeping right now.” He glances at the clock. “And he’d probably tell you that you should be too.”

“Oh _please_ , I’m a Goth. We don’t sleep at night-time.”

  
Tony snickers. “He’d probably also tell you to lay off the caffeine right now.”

With a snort of her own, Abby hangs up on him, proving that she has indeed learned some things from Leroy Jethro Gibbs over the years.

She does text him five seconds later though.

_Night, Tony!_

*

Halfway through breakfast, Tony’s phone rings with a call from dispatch. Tony gets through the exchange by sheer force of routine, scribbling the address on a piece of paper. He can feel Gibbs’ eyes on him, alert despite the early morning hour. The man looks strangely approachable with a bedhead and wearing rumpled pyjamas. “Got a case. Will you be all right by yourself here?”

Gibbs glares at him.

“Right, stupid question. I’ll call later. And don’t even think about coming to the office, or Ducky will skin us both alive.”

Gibbs continues to glare.

It’s not exactly assent, but Tony is just going to have to hope that the man will stick to the doctors’ decree as he’d implied he would yesterday evening, despite the lure of an active case.

Bag in hand, Tony throws him a jaunty wave. “There’s a spare key by the door!” he calls, a second before said door slams shut behind him.

Both Ziva and Tim are already waiting by the crime scene, making Tony the last to arrive. With no body to examine, Ducky and Palmer won’t be joining them. Yet. Kidnapping cases usually turn up bodies sooner or later in Tony’s experience.

“What do we have so far?” Tony asks, ignoring the pointed looks from two directions for the moment.

Tim fishes in his pocket for the notepad, then reports, “Base security got a call from Mrs Miranda Loveton this morning at 7am. She reported her husband, a Lieutenant Jack Loveton, missing. He never came home yesterday and she hasn’t been able to raise him on his phone.”

“Okaaay, why are we getting involved? It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet.”

“Apparently the Lieutenant was working on a top secret project,” Ziva puts in. Tony tries not to be put off by the fact that she’s still studying him intently, as if looking for clues. “His superiors are worried about a security breach and called NCIS. The Director agreed with their concerns.”

Tony makes a face. Top secret projects never bode well for an investigation.

“Fine. I’ll interview the wife and talk to his CO. You two canvas the neighbourhood and then get back to the yard to start tracking Loveton’s movements yesterday.”

He turns towards the front door of the Lovetons’ house, then turns back when neither Tim nor Ziva move.

“Problem?”

Tim shifts on his feet uneasily, then blurts, “How’s Gibbs?”

Tony stares at him for a moment, but he can’t really fault them for wanting to know. If he didn’t have first-hand proof that Gibbs is doing okay, he would probably be bouncing off the walls with all the what if scenarios crowding his mind.

“He’s fine, recovering,” he says, taking care to squarely meet both of their expectant gazes in turn. “On medical leave for two weeks. Apparently coming in to work to try and sort out that godawful mess while his head still resembled a squished potato on the inside wasn’t a great idea.”

“So he _will_ be coming back to work?” Ziva asks, the slightest thread of anxiety in her voice that Tony wouldn’t have thought her capable of a few months ago. “His memories have returned?”

“Looks like.” Tony isn’t thrilled about lying to his teammates, but he has to respect Gibbs’ choice in the matter. Besides, the man’s memories definitely _are_ returning, so hopefully by the time he comes back to work it’ll be mostly a non-issue. “Look, if you want to know more, you need to ask Gibbs himself. I’m not his keeper and frankly it’s bad enough that his private concerns were aired so publicly in the first place. Now shoo and do your jobs, so we can all stop standing in this poor woman’s driveway like a bunch of idiots.”

Tim looks like he wants to say something else, but Ziva nods, herding him down the street.

Half an hour later Tony is still talking to the worried wife when Tim calls him to let him know the Lieutenant has turned up, safe and sound, case over.

They don’t catch another case that day, leaving Tony free to spend a good chunk of his afternoon in Abby’s lab, which is far more interesting than dealing with paperwork in the bullpen. Unfortunately he only remembers that he hadn’t wanted to be grilled on Gibbs’ state of mind after he’d walked through her glass doors and Abby is on him like a hurricane.

“I went to visit the bossman this morning and he was very quiet, Tony, he worried me. I know it’s Gibbsish to be quiet, you call him our functional mute after all, but this was, like, hinky levels of quiet and – ”

“He’s got a lot on his mind, Abs,” Tony interjects gently when she stops for a breath. “You know how private he is.”

“I _know,_ ” Abby half wails, hands doing something complicated and dramatic. “I just, we all want to help him and he’s not letting us and he looks like he’s _in pain_.”

Operating on instinct, Tony moves forward and envelopes Abby in a firm hug, whispers “I know, Abs. I know.”

Eventually he draws back, wiping at small smears of mascara on Abby’s cheeks. “I think he’s trying, you know. He’ll be back at work week after next and we’ll all make sure he knows we’re here when he feels ready.”

Abby nods, then squints at him. “You know, you’re being very mature about this, Tony. Normally you hide mature Tony much more than this.”

Tony shrugs, not exactly comfortable with that line of questioning. “Well, the boss isn’t here so someone has to be, and Probie and Little Miss Mossad are still a bit too green for it.”

That, finally, makes Abby smile. “I’m going to do you a favour and not tell Ziva you call her that.”

“Yeah, one of the team recently hospitalised is enough, don’t you think?” he snorts. “Anyway, what are you working on? I’m hiding from paperwork.”

Abby grins and starts talking about plant spores. Tony follows maybe half of what she tells him, but her voice is soothing and some of the tension he hadn’t even realised he was carrying leeches from his posture.

He returns to the bullpen eventually because Gibbs is going to beat his ass if he comes back to find Tony hasn’t done any of his paperwork, memory or no memory. It only takes an hour of covert glances from Ziva and Tim for him to break.

“Look,” he says, keeping his voice quiet only because the rest of the bullpen does _not_ need to be hearing this, “just call him. He’s not going to bite your heads off.”

Probably. With Gibbs and phone calls you never know.

At least his words have the desired effect. Ziva and Tim exchange a glance, and Tim even goes so far as to offer him a mostly sincere apology for driving him nuts. Satisfied, Tony turns back to his expense sheets, only to find the back of his neck prickling a few minutes later. He looks up and around to find the Director watching him from the top of the stairs and groans quietly. When did he become the go-between for his boss and everyone else on the damned planet again?

*

Tony makes it back home at a decent hour for once, making a bit of noise in the entryway to warn Gibbs of his arrival. As if Gibbs wouldn’t have been alert since he first heard the key slide into the lock.

Gibbs looks almost normal, curled up on the sofa with a Pratchett book he must’ve brought with him because it’s definitely not Tony’s kind of reading, but the still healing burns on his face and the haircut that looks even worse than his usual (did he take a razor to himself or what?) reveal the lie.

Gibbs looks up at him over the rim of his reading glasses (Tony is never, ever going to tell him that they make him look exactly like younger Tony had imagined Dumbledore would look like, minus the long beard and hair. He’s also never going to admit that the image of Gibbs looking so incongruously _soft_ does certain things to his insides that are entirely inappropriate, and not only because the timing literally couldn’t be worse).

“Case closed?”

“Wasn’t even a case. Missing marine turned up halfway through us questioning his neighbours with a wicked hangover. Got too drunk to get home and slept under some bush, apparently.” At Gibbs’ enquiring eyebrow, Tony added, “His father just died and he isn’t taking it well, no mystery there. We wouldn’t even have been called in if he didn’t handle classified information – superiors got worried about a possible breach. We left him to sober up and get the ass-chewing of a lifetime.”

Gibbs shakes his head but doesn’t comment. At least it’ll probably rankle less that he wasn’t out in the field, what with the anticlimactic ending and no actual investigative work being needed.

“Got a call from Ziva. And from McGee. And one from the Director.” Gibbs’ eyes assess Tony’s reaction. “That your doing?”

“I just told them to stop bugging me and ask you directly if they want to know how you’re doing.” Tony shrugs. “Looks like they took me up on it. Kinda impressed by McGee actually – didn’t think he’d have the balls to call you about anything not work-related.”

Gibbs’ lips twitch. “Had some excuse about needing some advice on a file.”

Tony snorts, but holds back further comment. Tim has already made massive strides from the green newbie who jumped at every sharp word from Gibbs.

“Did you at least manage to convince them I didn’t murder you and hide your body under the floorboards?” He rummages in a kitchen cupboard. “Pasta okay for dinner?”

“Fine. Told them I’d come by the office later this week. Need to talk to the Director anyway.”

Tony is about to ask what about while he measures out an appropriate amount of pasta, but, thinking about it, there’s only one topic that’s likely.

“About the Cape Fear?”

Gibbs’ approving grunt tells him he’s right on the money. “Not gonna let that scumbag get away with making that call.”

Tony hums his agreement, trying to make the water boil faster through sheer power of will.

“So, one day of medical leave down – bored yet?”

Gibbs’ tone is wry. “How could I be, what with Abby showing up ten minutes after you left, Ducky dropping by with lunch to check up on me, and Ziva and McGee calling under pretences. And Jenny never leaves well enough alone.”

Tony grins to himself, glad his back is turned to Gibbs. The man may sound put-out, but he really, really isn’t.

*

The weekend passes weirdly uneventfully. Or at least, uneventfully in the ‘no major arguments or blow-ups’ way. Not so much in the ‘trying not to kill Tony through physical exertion’ way.

“I’m going to go to the shooting range,” Gibbs says.

Tony gets up. “I’ll drive you.”

He spends the entire morning watching Gibbs methodically destroy target after target, first with his handgun, then on the rifle range, until there’s absolutely no doubt that if Gibbs has lost anything, it has nothing to do with his shooting skills.

“Up for some sparring?” Gibbs asks next and Tony winces in anticipation of bruises, but doesn’t say no. It’s good for him, anyway, to occasionally meet Gibbs on the mats. He never wins, but he learns.

Much like the shooting range, Gibbs doesn’t seem to be slowed down one bit by whatever is happening in his head. If anything, his movements are even crisper, perhaps because his training seems much more recent to him. Muscle memory seems to be working just fine, despite the older body.

Groaning and stretching under hot water afterwards, it occurs to Tony that that’s what Gibbs is doing: rediscovering his own body, making sure he is as comfortable physically as he has always been.

The five mile jog the next morning agrees with Tony’s theory. He collapses on the couch afterwards, a bit more theatrically than necessary (he does run regularly after all), but it’s worth it for the half-smirk on Gibbs’ face.

“Have mercy, boss. I need to go in to the office tomorrow, remember?”

Gibbs only smirks wider. Tony takes it as a good sign.

*

They’re most of the way through the first week when Gibbs sits down next to Tony on the sofa as he’s watching a football game on mute and slurping a smoothie. Something in his demeanour immediately pricks Tony’s senses and he straightens.

“You watching that?” Gibbs asks, indicating the TV.

Tony shakes his head, remote already in hand to turn the TV off. “Just passing the time. Both teams are crap anyway.”

Gibbs accepts that with a nod, but doesn’t immediately say anything else.

When he finally speaks, voice calm in that very Gibbs way, which it took Tony a few months to figure out means he’s forcefully suppressing any and all emotion leaking into his voice, Tony immediately understands why.

“Did I ever tell you about them?” Gibbs isn’t looking directly at him, but all the pain absent from his voice is there to see in his eyes. “Shannon and Kelly?”

Tony’s heart makes a little hop-skip of disbelief, because this? This is exactly the kind of opening up he would never have expected from old Gibbs. “As far as I’m aware, you never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

Something passes over Gibbs’ face, too fast to catch, but it wasn’t anything happy. “I hid them for that long?”

“You’re a private guy, Gibbs,” Tony says helplessly. “And we didn’t know to ask. Maybe...” He swallows, wonders if he should say this or not, but at this point few barriers are left standing and Gibbs made the first step, so maybe Tony should follow suit. He almost wishes it was Ducky Gibbs was having this conversation with. Ducky always knows just what to say. Then again, selfishly, he’s also really fucking glad that Gibbs trusts _him_ enough to talk about things he’d kept buried for over a decade. “Maybe it was just too painful.”

Gibbs sighs. “Never used to be afraid of pain.” Seeing Tony’s expression, he grunts. “Yeah, yeah, I know, this is different.”

They continue to sit on the couch in silence.

Gibbs doesn’t say anything else _personal_ that night, but some invisible first step must have been taken because the next day, at breakfast when Tony is still bleary-eyed and seriously considering pouring coffee over his cereal, Gibbs quietly says something about Kelly’s favourite cereal having been Captain Crunch too. Tony blinks at him, not nearly awake enough to come up with an appropriate response, or any response really, but Gibbs doesn’t seem to expect nor want one, rising from the table to dispose of his own breakfast bowl in the sink.

Neither of them mention that little bit of honesty again.

As if Tony passed some kind of test with his non-reaction, it keeps going from there. Small anecdotes, throwaway lines, always triggered by something someone did or said or sometimes a flower or plant outside, never long stories and never something that Gibbs seems to be seeking out. It’s almost as if the man is forcing himself to share what comes into his mind, rattled loose by circumstances. Tony hopes it helps him. For his part, he simply listens and doesn’t respond much, and the minute relaxing of Gibbs’ features seems to indicate that’s exactly what Gibbs wants. Whether it’s also what he needs, Tony is less sure of, so he’s more than a little relieved to find Ducky talking to Gibbs at his apartment a couple of days into this new, slightly terrifying phase of Gibbs’ recovery. It only takes one look at Ducky’s warm, slightly awed expression and the vulnerability clear on Gibbs’ face for Tony to know what they must be talking about and he manages a quick enough about turn back out the door that he doesn’t think Ducky even notices him. Gibbs does, of course, the man notices _everything_ even with his brains scrambled, but he doesn’t acknowledge Tony’s retreat beyond a nod of his head when Tony comes slinking through the door again later.

The next day Tony drives Gibbs to the Yard for his chat with the Director. The Director who’d called Gibbs earlier that morning to pester him, going by Gibbs’ annoyed expression. Tony is planning to stay well out of that – those two’s relationship is complicated enough without added memory loss complications.

On the other hand, these last few days it has become increasingly hard for Tony to judge how much Gibbs is still missing and he’s unsure whether that’s just because Gibbs has become better at covering his lapses or whether he has actually got most of it back. Or maybe a combination of both. He could probably figure it out through strategic poking, but Gibbs is certainly becoming more like himself in temperament (aside from those baffling moments of openness, that is) and Tony doesn’t really want to poke the sleeping bear. Much. For one thing, he has every intention of dragging Gibbs down to Abby’s lab after his meeting, if only to keep Abby off his back.

Luckily for him Gibbs doesn’t turn out to need any dragging, which is another tick in the ‘Memories back’ column. Tony covertly watches from his desk as Gibbs comes down the stairs, looking a little unsettled but mostly darkly satisfied (which doesn’t bode well for the guy who’d made the call to let the Cape Fear blow up, not that Tony cares), nods at Ziva and McGee, and heads for the internal elevator.

Tony kind of wants to be a fly on the wall of the lab, but figures he should leave well enough alone in this case.

*

That night Tony is woken by Gibbs enduring a nightmare that leaves him quietly sobbing his daughter’s name. Tony hesitates in the doorway for far too long – he shouldn’t be witnessing this, but he can’t look away either. Enough of him is screaming for him to go and _do_ something, at least try to comfort Gibbs, that when he finally turns to go back to his own bed, shame dogs his steps.

He just can’t imagine Gibbs really wanting any of the comfort Tony could offer.

The next morning, Gibbs doesn’t bring it up, not that Tony expected him too, and that about proves that theory anyway. For the first time since Gibbs started crashing on his couch Tony is glad to escape to work for the day. He feels like there’s an invisible line he’s just trodden all over and while a whole day of being awkward around Gibbs wouldn’t exactly be a new development, he’s really not in the mood.

(He wishes that for once in his life Gibbs would just ask for help, for comfort, for _anything_ that’s not about work. Anything would be easier than just helplessly watching him suffer.)

*

“So, how is it going to work back at work?” Tony asks at breakfast, one week in. His resolution not to poke at Gibbs about his memories has lasted all of two days – he’s almost impressed with himself.

“What?” Gibbs barks, not looking up from the where he’s doing something to Tony’s stove with a screwdriver Tony could’ve sworn he doesn’t own. He sounds so much like his old self that Tony almost winces in expectation of a headslap.

Entirely aware he’s taking his life into his hands, Tony takes a deep breath and points out, “It could be a hazard in the field.”

Gibbs’ voice is dangerously quiet, eyes blazing as he turns around. “ _It_?”

Tony has half a second to consider that, actually, Gibbs hadn’t had any kind of overt meltdown over the whole situation in the week he’s been released from the hospital and maybe this is going to be it, before his mouth is already moving again without his brain’s permission. “You know, memory loss, amnesia, holes in your recollection, whatever you want to call it.”

He’s expecting an explosion, but Gibbs only folds his arms across his chest, voice still quiet. “You think this is going to be an issue, how?”

“Oh, come on. McGee and Ziva don’t even know there’s a _potential_ issue, you can’t tell me that sounds safe to you.”

If not for the look in his eyes, Tony might actually think Gibbs _is_ calm. “And you’d want me to do what about it?”

It’s the exact tone Gibbs always uses when Tony says something obvious that he’s going to ignore. Tony throws up his hands. “You could just tell everyone that you’ve still got some holes in your memories!”

“Wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“No!” Tony shouts, fury abruptly bubbling over. Even as he’s shouting, he’s trying hard not to think about just why he’s suddenly so angry. “Your _first_ choice was to run off, leave us all behind as if we don’t matter. _That_ was your first choice. Do you even care what that would have done to us?”

_To me?_

Gibbs just stands there calmly, taking the abuse, looking at Tony with those blue eyes that can see right through him, and it only makes him angrier.

“They’re your past, I get that. But are they so much more important than your present, your future? Huh, tell me that, Gibbs!”

Tony snaps his mouth shut before he says something else to regret later, pivots on the heel of his foot and slams out of his own apartment.

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

Only once the door is well and truly shut, does Gibbs deflate on a noiseless sigh. Tony has a right to his anger, and Gibbs had been waiting for it to explode all over them for a while, now that he remembers more and more about the man, but that hadn’t made hearing it any easier. He shakes his head at himself, rueful. _One of these days you’ll learn, Jethro._

Then he moves to pack his bag. It’s time he goes back to his own house. Avoidance can only carry him so far, and when all is said and done he has always been a man of action. Even he can recognise that he’s on a much more even mental keel now than he was a week ago – for one thing, the sudden flashbacks have decreased to maybe one a day. Besides, Tony deserves to have his own space back, without his boss constantly hanging around.

And then there’s the other feeling, that Tony is holding something back, that there’s something hovering just outside the edges of Gibbs’ consciousness and maybe a little distance will help him finally grasp it.

Gibbs stands in the doorway to ~~their~~ the bedroom, looks at the bed, comfortable mattress and sheets worn but soft, and _cold_. The bed he hasn’t slept in for years and years. With a quiet sigh, he turns around and goes to set up his usual nest on the sofa. It feels like admitting defeat, but some boundaries are still more tangible than others.

The couch welcomes his body like an old friend, already worn into his usual sleeping position. Just before he closes his eyes his gaze skims the empty mantelpiece. After half an hour of carefully even breathing and no sleep in sight, Gibbs sits up again and pads down the basement stairs. He doesn’t even stop to put shoes on, bare feet at the mercy of wood shavings and splinters.

He heads over to his desk, the little drawer he opens only irregularly, and takes out the framed photo of his girls (and him), all beaming at the camera. The wash of bittersweet pain as he looks down at the clear glass is as familiar as every curve of Shannon’s face and the bright colour of Kelly’s eyes. He takes in a long, shuddering breath and before he can talk himself out of it again, starts back up the stairs.

He falls asleep three minutes into staring at the photo on the mantelpiece.

*

Gibbs spends the next day cleaning out the attic and Kelly’s old bedroom. He’s hung onto all these things for far too long, much of it barely useable anymore. Of the three piles – throw away, charity shop, and keep – the first is by far the largest. There are just some things he still cannot bear to throw away; Kelly’s numerous art projects, her favourite stuffed wolf, a horse figurine she used to carry everywhere for a while and a board game she’d loved even though none of them had ever quite understood the rules. Of Shannon’s things he only keeps her books and her favourite blue scarf she always claimed mirrored the exact same shade of his eyes (for himself) and what little jewellery she had owned (because he cannot bear the thought of anyone else wearing it).

That night he doesn’t sleep, just spends the hours working on the boat in the basement, losing himself in the repetitive motions of sanding and nailing.

The following day he probably looks like the walking wounded, but some of the weight is leeching from his emotions, uncovering glimpses of a lighter freedom he hasn’t felt in years. Remembering without guilt or wallowing is a skill, and not one Gibbs has ever mastered before. He tries not to think about how much of a process it’s going to be.

For now, small steps will do.

His sleep remains disturbed by dreams, some nightmares, some memories that hurt as much as any nightmare, but he forces himself back to sleep again after they wake him. Gibbs may be able to run on less sleep than most people, even while working, but he knows that he needs to present at least the image of being rested if he’s going to be cleared for fieldwork again any time soon.

It’s while working on the boat again four days after he left Tony’s flat that he finally turns his thoughts to the indistinct elephant in the room. He has been mentally tip-toeing around whatever this thing with him and Tony is, which is irritating in the extreme because Gibbs doesn’t _do_ tip-toeing, least of all in his own mind. Which means deep down he already knows what it is and had decided to avoid it for a while.

Gibbs rasps a particularly vicious stroke of sandpaper along a rib, mouth firming. Denial has never been his way, he’s not going to change that now. Smoothing out his sanding rhythm into gentler movement, he deliberately casts his mind over his interactions with Tony these last two weeks, and then beyond.

The sense of safety at having Tony at his back out in the field. Eating breakfast and dinner together while he was staying at Tony’s flat, conversation easy. Telling Tony little bits of his life with Shannon and Kelly and Tony’s matter of fact reaction, just what Gibbs needed. Tony, sleep-mussed and with bed head coming out of the bathroom as Gibbs goes in to brush his teeth. The emotional underlay of all these scenes, fond, but also a little – _more_.

Perhaps most damning, he stayed because Tony asked him to, even when the rest of him was shouting at him to get away, to take his wounds somewhere far away.

Jesus fucking Christ he’s in love with Tony. And Tony, going by his recent behaviour, is in love with him.

Gibbs doesn’t even notice that his hands have stilled, resting on the smooth wood as he stares into nothing. It’s not the most convenient thing that has ever happened to him, which is probably why he hasn’t let himself think about it before now, but somewhat to his surprise he can’t really muster any regret either.

To regret would be to regret _Tony_ and something in him fundamentally resists that notion.

No, the real question is whether to do anything about it.

He considers the question – some strong reasons as to why it would be a terrible idea _on so many levels_ , and some compelling ones in the other direction – a jittery feeling swooping through him until he puts down the sandpaper and head up the stairs. He needs to move, get some fresh air. Perspective.

Gibbs ends up walking farther than he usually does, ending up in a part of town that most people avoid, at least at night. Gibbs isn’t worried. It’s barely after lunch and he can take care of himself (even if he does feel a bit bereft without his gun at his hip). Besides, he’s not here to find trouble and he doesn’t exactly look like someone worth jumping.

Then he hears someone crying out in pain and all his good intentions go out the window.

Following the sound, Gibbs rounds the corner into a smaller side-street, assessing the situation in a glance. Two guys, one with tattoos on his arms and the other wearing a bright red baseball cap, are in the process of inexpertly beating on a third, who’s backed up against the brick wall and bleeding.

“Hey!” Gibbs calls sharply, mind and body shifting into battle-readiness.

Baseball cap turns around, knuckles flashing bloody. “This is none of your business, old man,” he sneers. “Leave and we’ll forget we ever saw you.”

Gibbs only barely restrains a sigh. Some people, _stupid_ people, never bother to look beyond a person’s age to evaluate their fighting capabilities, and frankly it’s getting old. Especially the older he gets, though he can’t deny there’s some satisfaction to be had in beating the ass of someone twenty years his junior.

Gibbs steps forward. “No. If you stop throwing punches and hoof it, _I_ will overlook that I caught you breaking the law and won’t have to explain to Metro PD why I arrested a couple of bruisers while not on duty.”

“Shit, he’s a cop?” Tattoos hisses, taking a reflexive step back from his victim as if that’d be enough for Gibbs to forget he was whaling on the guy a minute ago.

Unfortunately Baseball cap isn’t as smart and apparently calls the shots. “Look at him, that ain’t no cop. He can’t arrest us.”

“Federal officer,” Gibbs says calmly, now only a couple of meters away from them. “Leave the guy alone. I really don’t want to deal with the paperwork.”

Baseball cap snorts, clearly not sold on Gibbs’ ability to take them both down, and pokes Tattoos with his elbow before advancing on Gibbs.

This time he does allow himself the sigh, mentally saying goodbye to the rest of his afternoon. If he had his gun with him this whole thing would already be over, but as it is, he’s just going to have to take those idiots down without doing either of them much damage.

Easily ducking under Baseball cap’s first swing, Gibbs sweeps his legs out from under him, does a half turn to throw a punch at Tattoo’s chin before the guy can do more than blink in surprise and lands himself on Baseball cap’s side with one knee. An arm lock insures the man’s cooperation as Gibbs forces him onto his front, silently cursing his lack of handcuffs. Keeping Baseball cap’s arm twisted painfully behind his back and his own knee solidly below it, Gibbs uses his free hand to reach under and undo the guy’s belt buckle. Gibbs smirks at the panicked cursing coming from beneath him.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers near the guy’s ear, sliding the belt free, “you’re nowhere near my type.”

Gibbs winds the belt around the man’s wrists several times and fastens it. A couple of tugs leave him satisfied that he won’t get out of the binding in a hurry. Then he rises to do the same to tattoo guy, who looks dazed enough, half slumped on the ground, that a concussion seems probable, but he hasn’t lost consciousness so Gibbs isn’t overly worried.

Then Gibbs turns to the third man, who’s propping himself up on the wall and watching the happenings with wide eyes. He’s younger than Gibbs had first thought.

“You okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

Gibbs does a quick once-over, but most of the damage looks superficial enough. Given the way the kid is dressed, he has some idea of the reason behind the attack.

The kid shakes his head, croaking out a no.

“All right.” Gibbs gentles his tone. “Sit down before you fall down. I’ll call the police and they can arrange transport to the hospital for you.”

Gibbs would dearly love to just call DiNozzo and have his team deal with the scene, but it’s really not in their jurisdiction and they’d still have to call Metro PD in anyway, so instead he dials one of the less used numbers in his contact list.

Once he’s done explaining to the officer on the other side that ‘yes I’m a federal agent and yes the situation is under control, but could you come and pick two perps up”, he turns his attention back to the victim. The kid’s looking a little steadier now, though still pale.

“The cops will be here in ten,” Gibbs tells him.

“Thanks,” the kid mutters. “I didn’t, didn’t think they’d go this far.”

Gibbs is unsurprised. “They won’t again anytime soon if you press charges.”

He nods, but Gibbs knows that with this type of attack most victims choose not to pursue legal options.

“How did you do that?” the kid finally asks, arm waving at the two bound thugs.

Gibbs shrugs. “Training. Might think about getting some yourself, if you want to keep cruising in a neighbourhood like this.”

The kid snorts, a wealth of _what would you know about it_ in the sound.

Gibbs sighs, but he’s too tired to argue with the kid, so they wait out the arrival of the squad car in silence.

Two hours, a lot of irritating questions about why he was out arresting thugs while on medical leave and an even more irritating amount of paperwork later, Tony picks Gibbs up at the police station.

“You’re supposed to be _resting_ , boss,” Tony snaps, looking quite close to outright fuming.

Gibbs shrugs, slides into the passenger seat. “Was on a walk, not looking for trouble. Can’t help that there were two idiots whaling on a kid.”

“ _Of course you couldn’t_ ,” Tony mutters under his breath, followed by something that sounds suspiciously like _trouble magnet._

“You’re one to talk, DiNozzo.”

Tony shifts gears a little more violently than necessary. “ _I’m_ not the one on medical leave. I’m just the one who got a call from Metro PD about the infamous Special Agent Gibbs having been in some kind of altercation and could I please pick my boss up before he sets the paperwork on fire. With his eyes.” He takes a deep breath. “He _didn’t_ think to tell me that you hadn’t even been injured in the ‘altercation’ before he hung up on me.”

Gibbs looks at him with a certain measure of side-eye. “You realize this overprotective bullshit is going to have to go before I return to work or we’re gonna have problems.”

For a moment it looks like Tony is going to argue – he already has his mouth open, frown lines deep. Then he deflates, sighs, and admits, “I know, boss. I’ll work on it.”

They drive in silence for a few minutes, then Tony says, “I’m sorry about losing it on you the other day.”

Gibbs tilts his head to look at him. “Did you lie?”

“What?” Tony’s face scrunches up. “No, but I shouldn’t have shouted.”

Gibbs just shrugs. “Then you have nothing to apologise for.”

Tony looks disgruntled, as if he was expecting more of a fight or something, but Gibbs refuses to make a mountain out of a molehill. Not like Tony was wrong anyway.

“Feel better for letting off steam or do you want to go a couple of rounds in the ring?” Gibbs asks, bland expression firmly in place.

Tony glares at him. “If I wanted to get beat up I wouldn’t need you to do it.”

“Offer’s on the table.”

Tony drives the rest of the way to Gibbs’ house five miles per hour under the speed limit, while Gibbs pretends his pettiness doesn’t make him smile.

*

Ducky turns up after dinner on the same day, dressed for work still.

Gibbs studies his old friend and doesn’t like what he sees. Ducky’s severity is very much real, but it covers _hurt_. Very real hurt, that Gibbs caused with his tight-lippedness. He suspects that if he doesn’t at least do his best to explain, his friendship with Ducky will suffer from it.

Which means he has to talk about it.

_Suck it up, Gunny_.

He’s been silent for a long time, but Ducky _does_ know him, whatever he now thinks, and is waiting equally patiently for him to start talking,

“I never told anyone,” Gibbs says abruptly. “Not _anyone_ , Duck. Not my ex-wives, though they all eventually figured it out on their own, not anyone at work. I know you’re right, I should’ve told you, but...” He sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “For a while after I just couldn’t. And by the time I’d got myself back together to a degree I might’ve contemplated it, the habit had been set. Never been the sharing type anyway.”

At this, Ducky allows himself a very gentlemanly snort.

“Jethro, has it ever occurred to you that you don’t need to shoulder all your burdens alone?”

Gibbs hitches one shoulder up. “Not how life works though, is it Duck? My memories, my pain, my guilt.”

“You’ve been alone too long,” Ducky sighs, but his expression is fond beneath the sadness and Gibbs knows that they’ll be all right. Another few fingers of his good Bourbon also help.

*

The last two days of his medical leave Gibbs spends just about crawling the walls. He has never liked time off, and enforced time off is even worse. He wants to get back to work, prove to himself that he still _can_ do the work, not sit at home, useless while ‘recovering’. At this point he has done all the recovering he’s gonna get done.

The boat gains a fair bit of planking in those 48 hours.

*

Gibbs is unsurprised to find DiNozzo tromping down the stairs to the basement the night before his first day back and jerks his head towards the cooling pepperoni and sausage pizza, extra cheese.

“Expecting me, boss?”

Gibbs just shrugs.

They don’t really do small talk when in the basement (unless Tony is particularly nervous about something), so Tony eats a slice of pizza and gets right to it.

“Someone else on the team needs to be aware how far along you are,” he says, inexorable, “or it’s a hazard in the field if you slip up.”

“There’s not gonna _be_ a slip-up,” Gibbs growls.

“No offense, boss,” Tony says, in a tone that implies a lot of it, “but you can’t be 100% certain of that. I’m not asking so I can micro manage you, just give me the broad picture.”

Gibbs curses silently because DiNozzo is right, and Gibbs knows he’s right or he wouldn’t have ordered the damn pizza in the first place and waited for the man to show up tonight. He should’ve just sucked it up and arranged the meeting himself, truth be told, but at least he knows he can rely on Tony to bully him into these things when necessary.

He still keeps sanding for a few more silent strokes. He needs to live up to the second B sometimes after all.

“Work-related stuff is back, far as I can tell,” he finally grunts, and almost smiles at the audible noise of relief from Tony. “Still missing some of the more personal details. Some memories are a bit” - he grimaces down at the wood - “fuzzy.”

He turns around, catches Tony’s gaze. “Nothing that would impact my performance in the field, or leading the team.”

Tony holds his gaze for a while, eyes searching, then he nods. “Okay, boss. Just let me know if anything changes, yeah? You don’t have to shoulder all this alone.”

Gibbs gives him a sharp look at that, half tempted to ask whether he’s been talking to Ducky, but decides to just nod his acceptance.

They drink the rest of their beer in companionable silence.

*

Being back in the bullpen helps. He hadn’t lied to Tony – work-related memories seem to all be there (though, a small voice keeps whispering at the back of his mind, _how would you know if they weren’t? Can’t prove an absence, after all_ ), but just the occasional feeling of blank spots on other topics keeps him slightly off-kilter, uncomfortable with the world. He hates the thought that he really has forgotten things and not just because his memory has always been perfectly reliable. With some memories there are shapes around the absence, which is how he knows something is still missing. Some he just can’t tell. These days, when he learns a new fact about someone (Ziva’s favourite ice cream flavour is mango), he can’t quite help but wonder if he had actually known this, before, even while he files it away among the new memories and promises himself never to forget again.

None of it impacts day-to-day business, beyond the occasional uncomfortable prickle, but he’s acutely aware of it at all times nonetheless and it _wears_.

At first the team treads a little cautiously around him, but Gibbs puts an end to that quickly enough by being his usual grouchy self. He really doesn’t need anyone pussy-footing around him.

Gibbs is cleared for field work two days after his return to the Yard, when the Director is finally satisfied with his physical scores and he has recertified at the gun range. Another little bit of weight drops of his shoulders.

They catch a case the next day.

Gibbs sets McGee and Ziva to processing the scene while he and Tony head over to the ambulance parked on the side of the street. The witness, the victim’s girlfriend according to the police officer who was first on the scene, is sitting in the back, orange shock blanket around her while a paramedic fusses at a head wound that has saturated her blonde hair with blood.

“Five minutes,” the paramedic tells them sternly. “We’re bringing her to the hospital for a check-up.”

Gibbs nods his agreement.

“Miss Wood, if we could ask you a few questions before they take you to the hospital?” Gibbs asks, more circumspect than he might usually be, but the woman is clearly distraught and halfway into shock.

She nods, hands clenching in the shock blanket.

Gibbs keeps his voice quiet and calm, soothing. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Her eyes are wide. “I don’t rem-remember. What happened. I was scared and there was someone angry, but I can’t...”

“Can you describe the someone?” Tony asks after she has trailed off, voice low and reassuring.

She shakes her head mutely.

Abby would probably call it karma or some such shit that their first case after his return involves a witness with amnesia. Gibbs just calls it damn rotten luck and ignores the headache waiting in the wings.

“Alright, that’s fine,” he says and gives her a small smile that seems to settle some of the panic creeping into her expression. “They’ll take you to get checked out and we’ll catch up with you once you feel better. We’ll find whoever did this, Miss Wood.”

Something freezes in her expression, so brief Gibbs almost misses it, and he frowns.

She nods again, just as the paramedic returns and shoos them away.

“A witness who lost her memory of the attack?” McGee says, when they’re all back in the squad room, lunch scattered about. He glances at Gibbs. “What are the chances of that?”

“I don’t care, McGee, as long as we find Corporal Faulkner’s killer,” Gibbs snaps, already tired of all the glances and murmurings. He’d been down to see Abby a few minutes ago, and she’d refused to let him out of her hug for two full minutes even though he’s completely _fine_.

“Maybe you should do the follow-up interview,” DiNozzo starts, “y’know, bond over shared experiences, boss? She’s coming in at two, the hospital just released her.”

Gibbs growls at him. Like hell is he going to bare his recent difficulties to a stranger. It’s bad enough everyone he works with knows.

“Right, that’s a no then, going to do the interview, boss.”

Tony has already taken a few steps when Gibbs barks, “I’m doing the interview, DiNozzo. Sit in with me, she seemed to like you.”

His gut is pinging where Wood is concerned. He doesn’t think she’s the killer – on-scene forensics were all wrong for that, for one thing, plus the head wound and quite real shock – but he’s certain she’s holding something back.

Tony nods, looking a little surprised, but adroitly changes course as he always does where Gibbs’ orders are concerned.

Seated in the conference room, Gibbs leaves the initial ‘getting to know the witness’ questions to Tony, while he studies Wood in between taking sips of coffee. Something is bothering him about her demeanour now that she’s less shocky and it takes him a little while to put his finger on what it is. Grieving, yes, but there’s nothing of the disquiet _Gibbs_ had felt at the loss of his memories. Sure, she says it’s only a few hours she’s missing, but shouldn’t there be some discomfort with it?

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks, during the next lull in Tony’s questions.

“Sorry?” Her focus shifts to him, a little like a deer in the headlights, and Gibbs’ suspicion solidifies.

So he repeats the question, not accusatory _yet,_ but with definite potential in that direction.“What’s the last thing you remember of the assault on the Corporal?”

Wood flinches. Gibbs can feel Tony’s suddenly sharp eyes on him.

“Set the scene for us.”

“Andrew and I were in the kitchen,” she finally starts, haltingly, not meeting Gibbs’ eyes. “He was cooking, and I… I was distracting him. He was laughing when.”

She breaks off, a hint of panic seeping into her expression.

“You do remember what happened, don’t you, Miss Wood?” Gibbs presses. “Why did you lie?”

She buries her face in her hands. “It was my _brother_. Kevin saw me with Andrew and he just went crazy, I’ve never seen me like that.” She looks up at Gibbs, tears pooling in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do.”

Gibbs nods. “You did the right thing, giving him up. There needs to be justice for Corporal Faulkner.”

It’s not going to make her any less miserable, he knows, but it’s all the comfort he can offer.

Once Wood gives him up, it doesn’t take long to round up her brother and charge him with murder. He’s not the seasoned criminal type, hadn’t even tried to run and confesses almost as soon as Gibbs has him in interrogation.

It’s not even six pm when Gibbs gets back to the bullpen, case wrapped up except for the reports his team is studiously typing away at as soon as he comes into view.

“Go home people, deal with the reports tomorrow,” he instructs them, smirking at the mingled exclamations of joy and shock.

“Indiana Jones boxset, here I come,” Tony whoops, already picking up his pack. McGee is more sedate, but clearly also pleased to be leaving.

Ziva, on the other hand, hangs around while Gibbs works, having elected to do his own report before he leaves. He gives her a pointed look, which she ignores, so he shrugs to himself and lets her be.

When he finally gets ready to leave an hour later, Ziva follows along and slips through the elevator doors just before they close, turning so she’s standing next to him and looking out towards the doors. Then she hits the emergency stop switch. Gibbs scowls.

“I know you do not wish to, as you Americans say, ‘make a big deal out of it’,” she starts and if he hadn’t already learned many of her tells he wouldn’t have noticed the slight fidgetiness to her hands. She doesn’t try to catch his eyes though. “But I feel it should be said nonetheless, that I am glad you are back and have recovered from your injuries. The team is not the team without you.” She smiles. “I believe McGee would also tell you so if he was not quite so… intimidated.”

“Thanks, Ziva,” he says gruffly, knowing that she can tell that he’s touched for all his grumpiness and he doesn’t need to say more. He hits the switch to get the elevator moving again. He turns to look at her, finally, eyes serious. “But if I ever do leave or my luck runs out, I expect you to carry on and make it work with the team.”

The doors open before she has a reply for that, which suits Gibbs just fine. He has made his point.

*

Tony swings by that weekend, despite it not having been that long since his last visit. Tony DiNozzo may be many things, but dense or unobservant are not among them.

They end up sitting on the couch for once, not down in the basement where the boat is looking increasingly boat-like.

“You’ve been different since, _you know_.” Tony’s eyes are serious on Gibbs’ face, and he’s not bothering with his usual veneer of humour.

“Different how?” Gibbs asks, and while he might not have meant for it as a challenge, that’s what it comes out as.

Tony’s eyes narrow. He’s not any more capable of backing down from a challenge than Gibbs is.

“If that’s how you want to play it, Gibbs,” he says, eyes flickering over Gibbs’ open posture, and leans forward to press his lips against Gibbs’.

It’s brief, barely a kiss, but they’re both smiling when they draw apart again.

“There’s that,” Gibbs acknowledges, voice a little hoarse. “Wasn’t sure what to do about it.”

“The great Leroy Jethro Gibbs _unsure_ about something?” The words are mocking but the tone is not, so Gibbs only shakes his head.

“I’ve never been real good a the personal stuff, Tony. Both know there’re a lot of ways this could go sideways.”

Tony shrugs, elegant insouciance over steely determination. “As long as you don’t forget me again I’m willing to take the risk.”

“No promises,” Gibbs rumbles, stepping in close enough to lean his forehead against Tony’s, “but I’ll do my best.”

If the timing is a little suspect – well, there are plenty of people who’d say that having to get blown up to acknowledge what’s right in front of him isn’t terribly out of character for Gibbs where personal issues are concerned.

Tony smiles. “Don’t need anything else.”

Gibbs spends the night. The house, the boat, the picture of Shannon and Kelly, the conversation he knows he and Tony need to have and soon, they’ll all still be there in the morning.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the conclusion. I hope you enjoyed my take on how Hiatus could've been a little gentler on everyone concerned.


End file.
